26. Lucia
Chapter twenty-six
Lucia
R ap, rap, rap. My knuckles feel raw against the heavy door yet make only a small scratching noise. But still, he hears me.
“Entra.” My father’s voice booms through the wood like it was no thicker than a sheet of cardboard. My stomach lurches, and luckily the dry crackers I ate before coming downstairs stay put for now. I turn the handle and enter.
It’s déjà vu. Different office, different house, but otherwise, it all feels the same. The air inside is cooler but no less claustrophobic. My father’s scowl is firmly in place.
“Sit,” he says, and surprisingly, his tone is more measured. I take it as a sign that this conversation may not be as difficult as our last.
Instead of perching on the chair opposite him, I walk to the sofa and take a seat there, leaning back into the cushions. He rises from behind the imposing desk and moves to sit in the large armchair adjacent.
“It’s clear you don’t want to be here in my house. But this is where your husband believes you will be safe, so this is where you’ll stay.”
My jaw clenches at his words. I don’t need reminding of Antonio’s request, but that’s a conversation for another day between him and me. What I don’t appreciate is the implication that my father can control my movements so completely.
“Now you’ve decided to care about my wellbeing? I’m sorry, but I don’t believe you,” I scoff.
“Lucia, I don’t know why you must always be so difficult.” He threads the fingers of his large hands together. There was a time when I longed for his concern, but I gave up hope of thinking I’d get it many years ago. Anger courses red hot through my veins, giving me the strength to retaliate.
“Why do you think I’m being difficult?” I ask, my arms folded across my chest. “Perhaps it’s because you’ve never shown the least amount of regard for how I feel … for most of my life.” I fling my hand in the air for emphasis; after all, I am Italian.
“That isn’t true. I have always done what’s right for you.”
“No, Father, you’ve done what suited you. You’ve never asked me what I wanted. You just demanded I do what you wanted. How do you even know what’s right for me?”
“I know because I’m your father,” he roars, and I jerk back at the onslaught of words. They’re only words, though, and I’m not going to let him intimidate me ever again.
“Well, you don’t get to do that anymore.
I have a husband now.” I stop to catch my breath.
I’m on a roll, finally telling my father everything I should have said years ago.
“Antonio doesn’t try to shut my opinions down; he listens.
He doesn’t control me; he lets me make my own decisions, encouraging and celebrating my successes.
He loves me unconditionally.” My voice catches on the lump in my throat as I think of Antonio lying injured in the hospital bed.
“Yet your husband forced you to come with me,” he states matter-of-factly. A frown now pulling down his heavy black brows.
“No, you’re wrong. He asked me, and I agreed because it hurt him to think I wasn’t safe.”
“And you came to see your family only because your husband asked you.” He steeples his fingers. “Why do you hate your family and our traditions so much?”
“Why do you hate my husband?” I fire back.
“Antonio Barbieri is a dangerous man,” he growls.
My mouth gapes until I can find my words. “Why would you say that?”
“He attacked his own cousin. A man of morals doesn’t do that to family.”
A wave of dizziness washes over me, and I shake my head to clear it. “What? Who told you that?” I demand, my anger firing back up again.
He stands abruptly and strides to the window, and I wonder if he’s even going to answer me.
“His cousin Bruno, when I found him as a teenager crying and bleeding by the gate down there.” He points through the window toward the villa gate, then turns around to face me again. “That kind of rage will always be in your husband.” His tone is now low with warning.
“That’s why you sent me away to Switzerland?”
“Of course. I didn’t want you being friends with someone who could be that violent.” He takes a few steps toward me, then stops. “You would tell me if he ever hurt you, wouldn’t you?”
I think this is the first time I’ve ever seen my father looking unsure of a situation.
A calmness ripples over me, settling my shaky hands on my lap. “Let me explain what really happened that day.” I swallow down the bile in my throat, trying to find the words I probably should have told him back then. “Bruno attacked me on the lower terrace, and Antonio came to my rescue.”
My father’s face remains impassive like he really doesn’t understand.
“Papa,” I yell in frustration, “Bruno was sexually assaulting me. Antonio pulled him off me, before he could …”
This time his composure cracks.
“Ferma!” he booms. Heat floods his jowls, turning them stop-light red, and his fists clench at his side.
“That’s why Antonio punished him,” I add, all fight gone from my voice. It’s now weak, diminished. My vision is blurry with unshed tears.
“Why didn’t you tell me?” he growls.
“Why didn’t you ask me?” I draw in a deep breath.
“I probably should have told you and Mamma. But I was embarrassed, and I thought it was somehow my fault. I was young and naive. But I don’t believe that now.
” I stand up and walk to my father where he stands like he’s cast from stone.
“Antonio would never raise a hand to me or any woman. But he would fight to the death to protect me. He’s the best man I know, and I love him.
” I place my hand on his arm, and his fists unfurl.
“I owe your husband an apology.” His mouth twists with the acknowledgment of his mistake. “And Bruno Barbieri is overdue my retribution.”
“No, Papa, let it be. It was so long ago.”
He grimaces. “I can’t. Nobody hurts my family and gets away with it.” My heart squeezes.
My father has never shown his family love with soft words and hugs.
He’s always kept his distance emotionally and physically, locking himself away in his offices.
But I’m starting to realize it doesn’t mean he loved us less.
While I don’t fully understand his version of tough love, I’m willing to acknowledge that it exists.
“I’m going to go and rest before Mamma and Dante arrive. Will I see you at dinner?”
“Sì. We will have dinner tonight with all of the family together,” he says, instantly back to his domineering self, but for once, it doesn’t grate on my nerves. That one glimpse of my father’s softer side might feel like a mirage, but I know I saw it.
And as I turn to leave, my mouth tilts into a small smile.